


Through the Cracks

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Babies, Childhood, Cute Kids, Family, Gen, POV Molly Weasley, POV Third Person Limited, Pandemics, Parenthood, Pre-Hogwarts, Sad and Sweet, Short One Shot, Speech Disorders, The Burrow, Toddlers, parenting, special needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: It's been a year of rotten luck: Goblin Flu, homeschool woes, and inconvenient safety precautions. So when baby Ginny isn't talking like she should, Molly tries her best to step into the role of speech therapist.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Through the Cracks

Molly Weasley’s first mistake had been assumption. None of her six boys had inherited the gene, so why would her daughter?

Her second had been denial. 

Her third, procrastination. She should have acted sooner. Called sooner. Done more, earlier, before the lockdowns hit and more became impossible. 

Steam rose from the first bite of her porridge, miraculously still warm. The boys had gobbled theirs down in seconds and raced outside for some morning fresh air, leaving Molly with a rare, blessedly quiet moment. But even in the silence, she couldn’t savor it; each bite was seasoned with guilt, with desperation and fear. Then the screaming started. She set down her spoon and side-stepped abandoned shoes, dog-eared textbooks and piles of soiled masks to reach the rickety high chair by the kitchen window. 

“Alright, Ginny. Do you want down?” She spoke clearly, over-pronouncing every syllable.

Ginny banged her sippy cup on the tray. Tears spilled down her cheeks, her face nearly as red as her hair. 

“Do you want more? Are you still hungry?”

“Wah-wah-wahhhh!” 

Was she trying to say ‘more’, or was she full? If she would just shake her head, give some kind of sign—anything at all. Hands shaking, Molly undid the safety charm and set Ginny down. The screaming stopped, and her pudgy toddler knees hit the floor. She crawled to the living room, meowing at Charlie’s socks or invisible cats or Merlin-knew-what. 

It would have been cute if it wasn’t her only intelligible word. Bill was spouting off sentences at this age. At two-and-a-half years old, even Ron could communicate his basic needs. Days like this, Molly longed for her mother’s voice, for her plucky smile and endless grit. Headstone soliloquies were good for grief; not so for advice. But if she were here, Mary Prewett would say that swimming in sorrows was for catching Grindylows and wrinkling feet. 

Molly gobbled up her now luke-warm porridge and snatched the speech book from her knitting table. The cover was worn, the spine bent, and the first half filled with her mother’s notes. She’d hoped she’d never need it. But seven children in, her luck had run thin. 

A scuttle from the room’s corner drew Molly’s eyes to the stairs, and to the tiny pair of legs scrambling up them. “Oh, no you don’t!” Molly scooped her up, arm under belly, and plopped down into the rocking chair. “You’re going to sit and practice your words.”

She opened to a bookmarked page, where she’d magicked a drawing of a cat and the word “meow” months ago, when Ginny was first diagnosed with Slug-Tongue Syndrome. Having overcome it herself would have given Molly hope under different circumstances. It was supposed to be treated in person, with special spells under a qualified Mediwitch. It was all very technical, and very impossible to do via Floo. Even her most earnest efforts were a poor substitute.

Round green eyes blinked back at her against the yellowed page. “Meow. Cat says ‘meow.’”

For the first time since breakfast, Ginny seemed to have forgotten her favorite word. Molly frowned and turned the page. This one had a brightly colored ship that had taken hours to perfect, so it bobbed and swayed over blue lines of a lazy ocean. “Buh-buh-buh,” said Molly. “Boat. Buh-buh-buh.”

“Meow,” said Ginny. She dove out of Molly’s lap and would have banged her head on the floorboards if it weren’t for a quick intervention. 

“Just three more pages. Let’s try ‘moo.’”

Fred and George stumbled into the room, their hair blackened and smoking. “Moooooom. We’re out of cracker boxes again. How are we supposed to finish our Transfiguration assignment without cracker boxes?”

“Transfiguration homework or wild experiments?” Molly sighed. “Never mind. I’ll make duplicates from the box in the pantry.” 

Ginny squealed, delighted with her shortened practice session. Little did she know, it was Wednesday, and she had a lot more coming.

But for then, there were materials to prepare, dishes to be done, masks to be washed, and lessons to oversee. After lunch, she sent the older children out to pull the pepper-pansies overtaking the Burrow’s make-shift Quidditch field. Her mother would holler if she knew, but the garden had already been de-gnomed so many times; she couldn’t use that excuse again. The front door had just slammed behind them when the Floo pinged. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Molly grabbed her book and plopped Ginny onto the braided rug by the fireplace. 

A witch’s face appeared, long and gaunt and distorted in the firelight. Ginny sobbed.

The witch looked past her, straight into Molly’s eyes. “Any progress? Has she managed the ‘b’ sound?”

Molly flipped through the meticulous notes she’d scribbled into the back of her book as if she didn’t already know them by heart. “Not yet.”

The face tsked. “If only we could meet in person. What she needs is a reflection spell. It would help her muscle memory, give her a feel for how her mouth should move.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do? Every month that passes her chances of beating this get smaller and smaller.” Molly tried to keep the venom from seeping into her voice; this witch wasn’t responsible for the Goblin Flu.

“The pandemic won’t last forever. We’re working on a potion to cure it.”

“And how long will that take? A year? Two? Ginny needs help now.”

“So sorry, the Floo’s cutting out.” The flames flickered; the face faded. “Same time next week. Keep practicing that ‘b’ sound.” 

The fireplace went dark, but Molly didn’t budge. Months of work, of daily practice, and Ginny hadn’t learned a single new consonant. What if it never got better? Memories, long-since buried, broke free and taunted—the laughter of the neighbor girl, when young Molly lisped her words on their play-date. All her frustration, and how she’d hollered for the world to hear when she finally got it right. But she’d do it all again if it would help Ginny. 

Molly wasn’t sure how long she knelt there, her knees tucked to her belly and her tears soaking into the braided rug. Long enough for Ginny to curl up beside her; long enough for clumsy fingers to turn battered pages; for her to meow quietly to herself. The sweet innocence of her voice made Molly pause, made a smile crack through her grief. Here she was, crying like a Hufflepuff. Where was the warrior who stood against Death Eaters, who fought for her every word, who birthed seven children? She rolled to her feet and perched her hands on her hips. 

“Listen here,” she said. “You’ve never been one to give up when the going gets tough, so don’t start now.” 

“Meow.” Ginny was pointing to a page, worn until it resembled cloth more than paper, a page Molly had always ignored. She lifted the book and stared at an illustration, crimson and tawny and oh-so-familiar, drawn by her late mother’s own hands. 

Molly Weasley had no faith in superstitions. But this year, luck had failed her. It was time she made her own. The front door burst open, pouring in red-headed boys carrying armfuls of red-petaled flowers. “Put those in water,” Molly said. “Ginny and I are going twig-hunting.”

Ginny squealed and fetched her shoes, her smile as big and as bright as the sun. Luck amulets were simple if you had the right materials: poppy-pansy, twigs from an ancient yew, and something to hold them together. No need for fancy crystals, according to Mary Prewett. As Bill and Charlie scrubbed the dinner from the plates that night, Molly pulled out her knitting needles. She formed a vase around stick and stem, stitched a chain of yarn. It was silly, oh so silly, but she ducked into it, anyway. It smelled of her mother and endless days by the fire, of her own slow tongue and the work she’d done to make herself heard.

From the floor, Ginny looked up from the ship and its fluttering sails. “Buh.”

Molly dropped the amulet, let it rest against her breastbone on its make-shift chain. “Did you just say…?”

“Buh!”

In an instant, Ginny was in her arms, and tears of a very different nature than this afternoon’s dripped down Molly’s cheek and into her daughter’s hair. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And a start was all they needed. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful betas, and to everyone who reads and supports this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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